


I'll Be Home For Christmas

by pocketbucky (SophisticatedCat)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Stucky Secret Santa 2016, who's the bigger sap the bucko or the me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8924137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophisticatedCat/pseuds/pocketbucky
Summary: A few scenes from Steve and Bucky's Christmases over the years.Two 'platonic' Christmases, and one 'not so platonic' one...there's smooching!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [velleities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velleities/gifts).



> The end takes place between the story of CW and the mid-credit scene (where Bucky goes into cryo).
> 
> I'd also like to thank Marvel for not having a definitive timeline for Civil War (if there is one I'm choosing to ignore its existence), so I can write fics that take place throughout the events of the film.
> 
> Also, as per usual, this can probably be considered a character study.

**December 25, 1936**

Steve wakes up slowly, groggily. He blinks against the instrusive white rays of light shining in through the window. The world outside their apartment is bright from the light of the morning sun reflecting off the newly fallen snow. 

Bucky is already awake and shuffling around the small kitchenette. “Morning, Steve!” Bucky shouts excitedly.

Steve rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he shuffles across the small apartment and plops down at the table.

Bucky slides a cup of coffee across the table will well-practiced grace. It slides to a stop inches from Steve's sweater-clad torso. The coffee is strong and bitter. The smell alone helps to wake Steve up. 

Steve wraps his hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into his almost-numb fingers.

“You missed the midnight Mass last night. You going this morning?” Bucky asks. Although he has a smile on his face, his voice is low.

“I think I’ll skip it this year.” Steve responds, voice raspy with sleep and cold. Christmas Mass had always been a big thing for Sarah. She reveled in enjoying the service with her son. Steve didn’t feel like attending without her. He knew her absence from such a sacred tradition would be glaring, and he worries it might break his heart.

Bucky sets some toast and butter on the table. He sits in the chair, opposite the small table from Steve. Bucky takes a large gulp of his coffee. He moves with a comfortable and masculine grace. Steve has always admired how Bucky always seems to have confidence radiating from him. In public, Bucky carries himself and speaks with flirtatious charm. When they're at home though, he's more relaxed and organic. 

Bucky continues, "Dorothy and her sister are probably around. Wanna see if they need some company"

Steve's hands fidget around his coffee cup, "Nah."

Bucky's lips pull back in a small smile. "Alright. It's just you and me then."

Steve finishes, "'til the end of the line."

That's all it takes. Bucky's small smile breaks into a vast, toothy grin. Steve can't help that he's a sap, and he looks forward to spending the holiday with his best friend. 

**December 24, 1944**

During the war, neither knows what they’re going to do about the holidays, but they don’t talk about it directly. Instead, they do what they do best. They bottle up their problems, not wanting to ruin the spirit of the other. 

Steve finds himself missing the way the holiday season was back in Brooklyn, before the war. He misses the simplicity of it, and feels guilty that he can't enjoy the holidays the way he used to.

Their last Christmas together, they didn’t have gifts. Instead they found a pub to hang around in. All the Howling Commandos took a night off from planning their next assault. Their next mission was to capture Zola himself. It's almost the end of it, the Commandos think. Then they can go home.

The pub is bustling with rowdy commandos. The harsh artificial light casts a yellow glow to everything in the building. Beer is being drunk like it's going out of style. Everybody is talking, practically shouting over each other. Everybody misses home, but is celebrating their best. Conversations overlap and laughter fills the room. 

Steve and Bucky are bellied up to the bar. Bucky is a couple beers in and already has his jacket unbuttoned and hanging loosely around his body. Steve is also a couple beers in, but the buzz hasn't hit him yet. He suspects it's the serum, but he hasn't had a chance to test that theory. Bucky leans in close and in a low voice asks if they want to find a quieter place to chat. Steve agrees, the bustle of the bar, while being festive, is a little much. Bucky orders a couple more beers, and they shuffle away from the bar.

They manage to find a smaller dining room set back from the rest of the pub. The men sit down at the table relishing the relative silence of their private room. Over the next few hours they drink round after round, and laugh over familiar of past holidays.

"Remember your ma's face when you gave her that drawing of her in the kitchen?" Bucky asks, words slurring slightly thanks to the beers, and he looks down at the table top to hide his huge ridiculous smile. Steve can't help but giggle. Sarah had nearly cried when little Steve gave her a rough sketch he'd made. The photo was of Sarah, back to him, preparing something on the stove. The drawing was beautiful, and Steve is hit with a bitter pang of sadness. He kind of misses his cheap apartment back home.

"I always liked getting your drawings, best gifts I ever got." Bucky admits. His cheeks are flushed pink and splotched.

On that last cold Christmas night in Italy in 1944, Bucky leaned in too close, eyes scanning Steve’s face. “Remind me to tell you something when I’m less drunk and stupid,” he’d told his friend.

Steve never got the chance to ask what Bucky was on about. The next weeks were filled with intelligence briefings and traveling to meet Zola's train. No time seemed quite right to ask the questions Steve needed to. 

After Bucky died, Steve would give anything to have just one more night in a loud pub or one shared glance across a table at a briefing. Steve realizes he'll never see home again, and he'll never have a chance to say all the things he should have. He hates himself for that. For leaving questions unanswered, for all the perfect moments he took for granted. 

**December 25, 2016**

Bucky saunters into the kitchen one December morning, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Winter without snow is still throwing Bucky off. It feels like the depths of summer, not the end of one year and the start of the next.

Steve is the only one in the open air kitchen. As Bucky sits down at the counter, Steve slides a cup of coffee in front of him. Bucky immediately starts gulping it down. Steve's brewed it strong and left it black.

Bucky hasn’t been able to shake the cold from his bones. Even the humid jungle surrounding T’Challa’s place couldn’t get rid of the deep chill that seemed to be permanently seeped into his core.

He didn’t tell anybody this though. He just wrapped himself up in too many layers of clothes and tried not to be a bother.

As Steve bustles about putting things away, Bucky glances around the kitchen. It's pristine, minimalist, and almost futuristic. The room is all shiny countertops and smooth white cupboards. The appliances are all state of the art and too clean to have been used much. Bucky can't help but hate this place a little bit. It looks like a contemporary government building, not a house. Of course, to a king, those two mesh together a little bit.

Steve pours himself a cup of coffee and walks around the counter to sit next to Bucky. 

“Merry Christmas.” Steve says finally, a smile on his face.

Bucky smiles despite the feeling in his gut that it can't be Christmas. This morning didn't have the magic feeling that Christmas morning was supposed to.

"You too. Merry Christmas," he replies, finally looking up at Steve. After everything they've been through and everything that's changed, Steve's eyes are still the same beautiful blue. Looking into them feels like going home. Not to Brooklyn, but to a warm, comfortable place that Bucky can feel deep inside. A place they shared. A place they created together, in the company of one another.

There’s a weight in the air. The weight of 80 years of unspoken affection. Both men have a habit of bottling things up, and neither knows how to address what they’re feeling. Bucky meant to tell Steve long ago that he loves him deeply, but the time never felt right.

Bucky swallows, still unable to peel his eyes from Steve’s. Bucky's mind reels. He wants to spell out confessions of love with kisses on soft skin. _What the hell,_ Bucky thinks, and he acts before he can talk himself out of it.

Bucky leans forward too-fast, his eyes fluttering shut before his lips touch Steve’s.

The kiss is chaste and awkward at first, with Bucky more or less placing his lips on top of Steve's. Their noses bump together before Bucky remembers to tilt his head. Bucky's breath tastes like sleep and strong coffee, which is bitter but not entirely unpleasant.

Steve tenses up at first, his body reacting to the unexpected grace of Bucky's warm lips. Steve’s initial shock gives way to pleasure, and he leans in even closer to Bucky, deepening the kiss. His slides his hand up Bucky's arm where it settles on top of his shoulder, fingers gently pressing into the firm muscle, and thumb rubbing a gentle line across his collar bone. Steve swipes his tongue along Bucky’s plush lower lip. Bucky reacts with a slight hitch of his breath.

It’s warm and soft and intense…and over way too soon as Steve gently leans back from Bucky, his eyes still closed. His eyelashes cast delicate shadows on the lower lids of his eyes. Both men can feel their pulse racing, and a pink blush rises up Steve's chest and face. Bucky's immediate reaction is to panic, but one look at Steve's blushing, blissed face calms his nerves.

Steve speaks first, "About damn time," he comments with a teasing smile.

"You're a punk." Bucky flirts back.

They spend the following hours telling familiar stories of their youth and making up a century of kisses. 

They may never be able to got back to Brooklyn 1936, but home is with each other.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first ever time writing fic for somebody else and under a deadline!  
> And it was super fun!
> 
> Go check out buckities on tumblr (for whom I wrote this)!


End file.
